Naptime is bad. Naptime is bad. Naptime is bad. Naptime is bad. Naptime is bad. Naptime is bad. Naptime is bad.
If I take a nap, I won't make it to CF's birthday party. I took a nap last night, and missed Audrey's party. I took a nap when I woke up at five o'clock this morning, and missed both the sunrise and Ben's wake up call. It was a wonderful message, Ben. I can't believe I slept through it.
Don't you know the call-me-twice-and-I'll-hear-it-rule?
Naps are intense. Naps are dreams in high sequence. Naps are falling sideways, crashing, hitting a concrete wall and lying there dazed and unable to get up.
I will not take a nap.
I will not sleep off the early morning mellowness, the screaming children, braiding their hair and dragging them to brunch at Miche's place where all the beautiful lesbians and pagan/fetish crowd lazed about in coloured print dresses and sucked on the pineapple pieces that I'd chopped with a hand moving in memory from my year working at the grocery store.
I am waiting for the coffee to hit.
I am waiting for my fifteenth wind.
I am waiting for my arms to be less sore, to pull on an almost clean tank top from New Orleans, and not have my shoulders ache from PIGGYBACK PIGGYBACK and my tongue yearn for the stolen kisses when the kids were around the hallway.
Seven o'clock in the morning, maybe it was the phone that jarred me from my twenty minute nap, thinking of cf in a zen/tea/my gods but am I ever appreciating his birthday kind of way. I mean, without a birthday, he wouldn't have been born, and I wouldn't have whooped and hollered and punched and bruised the way I so often have with him.
Happy week-late party, cf. I can't wait to meet Mysteria, see Kaff again, and princess, and Bruno and Meghan and Tia and the drunken masses that I am filling myself with heady coffee for.
I'm still waiting for the coffee to hit.
Maybe it'll hit when I'm out the door in five minutes flat and careening my way down the highway one exit to his place.
When the dregs of seeing Shrek again, with Olivia curled up in my lap in the movie theatre, David brushing my elbow with his thumb, and Emily climbing all over both of us whenever the dragon growled have become backlog memories.
"I love you"
"Really" (with a big ol' monstre grin)
"Really Really."
I caught the sunset, at least, in the rain, my head full of paladdins, poets, David's impossible baritone and Emily's impressive five-year-old ability to carry a tune.
The Neverending story song.
"Giya, Giya, braid my hair! Like last time, like last time!"
"Let's make a book, Gila"
"Tell us another story about the blue princesses, Giya!"
David in the doorway and my head drooping, dying for naptime, two little redheads clambering in my lap.
I can feel the coffee hitting.
Fifteen seconds and I'm out the door.
Down the stairs, around the corner, into my great beige wonder, and off down the highway.
Right. Grab the wine and carboard construction and go.
Go.
Going.